


Hearts Underwater

by e_cat



Category: The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: I wanted to make it a good work for my first AO3 TSR fic, I'm satisfied with it being this one, Other, just capaill uisce under the waves, literally the only humans are by mention, quietly shipping Skata and the bay mare without white
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 15:17:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15145958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_cat/pseuds/e_cat
Summary: After the races, Skata returns to the sea.





	Hearts Underwater

Beneath the waves that pummel the shore of an island that humans call Thisby, there swims a _capall uisce_ that humans called Skata. Her flank that was called stunning by humans is, in the water, a flash out of the corner of the eye that warns of her approach. This is how she learned to be quick and sharp-toothed. She will not starve, whether it is fish or man that stains her teeth.

This horse that was called Skata has been away from the sea too long. Humans like the one who claimed her, as if he could truly command the waves, toss meat to the horses like it is nothing. There is pleasure in the blood, but it is also in the gallop of its pursuit. The humans hold meat in their fingertips and do not appreciate the marvel of nature that is one creature consuming another. They do not think often of the balance, and so they often forget to keep it.

In the water now, after an eternity of her coat shivering in its longing for the salt of the waves, the horse that was called Skata can still taste the blood of her escape on her teeth. It is like victory, but it is also like bitterness. She tried to tell the humans that she belonged in the sea, but they made her prove it in blood they should have realized was so easy to lose. One of their saddles still clings to her spine, and it will be too long before the water rots the straps.

In the dark distance, the mare once called Skata sees the shadows of other _capaill uisce_. They are storms beneath the waves, and they snap at one another, circle one another, come together, come apart. Skata sings her story to them, and they sing theirs back. They do not approach, for they hear in her song the still-unsated hunger for salt and blood.

Now it is days past her escape, and now weeks, and now months. The saddle still holds tight to her skin. She does not think she will truly be home again until it is gone. Every day, she pursues a seal, or a shark, or a fight. The blood whispers before her eyes. It wants to tell her a story, but she cannot speak that language while she still remembers the humans.

Today, she swims near enough to see the shore. The strain of muscles swallowing land is different than their feeling as they rip through water. She will crave that strain again, she knows. It is the nature of the _capaill uisce_ , this curiosity and risky desire. She still carries the humans’ saddle, however, and she does not wish to carry another. She will be faster next time; she will be the wind, which the humans cannot catch.

Only twenty yards away, another _capall_ cries out to her. It is a song of defiance, of flight, of thrill. Skata calls back, and it is a song of sand beneath hooves, drums beating like hearts, and riders thrown and caught. It is also a song of greeting. She did not see this other horse before now – a mare of kelp brown flank and silent black hooves – and she could have been lost to a fight before she realized one was coming. She appreciates the thought for fair play.

The mare approaches and yanks Skata’s mane between her teeth. Skata smashes her nose into the other’s jaw in return. The mare releases, and they swim a circle thrice. The sea tastes of salt and respect.  
In an instant, the mare lunges forward, and Skata screams of treachery and battle. She cranes her neck for a good angle at flesh as the mare’s teeth reach her middle. But there is no pain.

There is a tugging feeling, and the strap of the saddle snaps. The mare retreats as the human thing sinks to dwell among other forgotten things. She sings of her own souvenir of humans, torn off with sharp rocks that disrupt the waves. Skata replies with a song of gratitude and pleasure.

The bay mare makes a thrust of her body, out toward the waves. She sings of meat to be won, equally earned and equally tasted. As she shoots forward this time, Skata follows. It is a twirling, triumphant race, two _capaill uisce_ matched in their love of the water sliding over their skin. More than it ever has before, the ocean in Skata’s mouth tastes of home.


End file.
